


My New Case

by orphan_account



Series: Love Me Dead (One-Shot Readers) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Manipulation, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock views everything in a pragmatic way, and he knows what the feelings that are stirring inside of him mean. He knows, reasonably, that he is in love with ______.He just doesn't understand why yet, but he will soon. He will just have to do some digging.





	My New Case

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This work is from my "Love Me Dead" collection - a collection of x Reader stories with problematic tropes. To find out more, read the note at the end!

Sherlock Holmes was a man most acquainted with death. He’s seen a lot of it, they all intrigued him. Rarely did he ever come across a mysterious death that he didn’t want to investigate, however, it wasn’t always easy to get on-site is Lestrade wasn’t around. Sometimes, he required other assistance.

The first thing she remembered hearing out of the tall, handsome man’s mouth was, “Journalism is dead.”

Right then and there, she wanted to slap him. Sure, he was helping her out with connecting some of the dots, but she couldn’t care less. She lent him _her_ press passes to get him into this area because he was beginning to run out of ideas, and (in his own words) his brother was being a prick. He had no right to belittle her profession.

“You listen here, Sherlock Holmes,” _____ turned to him and pulled on the collar of his jacket to get him to face her. “Journalism isn’t dead, not to those who actually care about reporting. I do not put myself through risky situations, investigate, travel to places I’d rather not go and risk my neck for a dying profession. Journalism isn’t dead, but it’s at risk thanks to the people who want to think it is. Go ahead though, belittle my work, you won’t get press passes from _me_ next time.”

That was the first time Sherlock had actually taken the time to notice her. It wasn’t the yelling, he had been yelled at his fair share of times (especially by John, Molly and Lestrade). However, there was something different about her. Maybe it was the passion. Maybe it was the fact she was stunning. Maybe it was the power she seemed to hold over him. _Something._

He decided she was worth investigating. After this case was over, of course.

Luckily, it was a simple one. One of the ones he considered boring but took it for John’s sake because the customer was wealthy and wanted answers. John wanted Sherlock’s share of the rent sooner or later. John just told him to make it look like his money was worth an effort and there was more of a case than there really was, so Sherlock decided to get into the crime scene, still two days fresh. His client was wary of police and wanted Sherlock to take a second look. He knew just by looking and listening to the guy that he was the one who committed the murder.

Sherlock walked around the crime scene - a part on the beach that seemed mostly abandoned. _____ sat on the rocks. This wasn’t a story she was particularly interested in. The _only_ reason she was here was because she owed Lestrade a favor and this was out of his jurisdiction. He needed her press passes to get a closer look. She looked out to the body of water and sighed. “Are you nearly done over there, Holmes?” she asked, picking up a rock and skipping it across the water.

“It was the secret lover, he did this to her,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

_____ perked her head up and looked over at him. “There’s no way you could already know that,” she stood up. “Prove it to me. Walk me through it.”

Sherlock never passed up an opportunity to show off. In this case, he felt even more compelled to than usual. Something about her made him want to show off and make _her_ notice _him,_ not the other way around. He had a way of getting noticed by the press, but something about her was different. She wasn’t usual press, she wasn’t interested in him.

It made her even more worth investigating.

He made an effort to walk her through every detail, not just explain it at a high speed. He walked her through the client who had come to visit her and how there was something off about him. It was almost as if he was desperate for Sherlock to tell police his opinion on the matter, a way to bribe police without bribing the _direct_ police. If he could get Sherlock to believe it was the husband and not him, he would be in the clear and out of the country by the end of the day. He was on edge. Next, it was the matter of the woman’s appearance. She was dressed and had done her makeup as if she was going to go out to a nice restaurant, had her wallet with her too. You don’t usually carry around your wallet when you’re going to stay at home, or when you go out to dinner with your husband. Next, it was the wedding ring, a similar situation as the woman from a case he solved long ago: the ring was dirty and neglected except for the inside, it got polished and clean from the constant effort of taking it off her finger and putting it back on. Next, there was a matter of how she was found. If a husband was going to kill her, there would usually be signs of long-term abuse leading up to a murder. However, there was no abuse signs. This looked like a spur-of-the-moment, passion killing. “The solution?” Sherlock asked, proud of his deductions. “The man was a secret lover and killed her.”

_____ stood there silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. “You would make a fantastic journalist,” she told him. “How do you know he’s her lover, though?”

“His lock screen is a picture of her. Of course he’s her lover.” Sherlock pushed away her question like it was nothing. “What do you mean I’d make a fantastic journalist?”

_____ rolled her eyes. “Who cares, you think it’s a dead profession anyways.”

“No, go on, tell me. What is it that makes a good journalist?”

_____ went silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Well, first of all, an analytic eye. You see things and right away, you begin to examine them and deduce what they mean. You don’t see things are regular objects, you see them as clues and things you can use to get a better idea of what’s going on. Second, you don’t take bribes, something very important. In this work, it’s easy to take hush money to cover what you found. You could’ve easily taken the money and told him what he wants to hear, but you see the truth and intend to tell it. Finally, you seem to enjoy field work. There needs to be a lot of that in _real_ journalism, not that commentary crap people call news,” she gave him a small half-smile with a mischievous look in her eyes.

It drove him wild, but he pushed the unfamiliar feeling down.

“Right, seems like I would. Now that my work here is done, you can have your press pass back,” he took it off his neck and handed it back to her.

“Thanks,” she stood looking at him. As he walked away, she sped up and stood in front of him to ask one final question. “Just in case I ever need you to help me with a journalism mystery, where I can I reach you? Have you got a phone, or a business card I can use to get in contact with you?”

Sherlock smiled at her. “The address is 221B Baker Street. Drop by if you think you’ll have something that’s worth my time.”

He walked away, and she watched him go. He had popped up his collar, and that made her laugh. She always saw her co-workers do that when they think they’ve just handed in a really important and well-written piece. There was something about him that was interesting, but she couldn’t place her finger on it.

As he walked away, Sherlock fought the urge to look back. He looked at her name on the press pass, it was the same as her pen name. His investigation on her would begin as soon as he got back to Baker Street. He wanted to know more about her. He had to know more. He had to find out what it was about her that grabbed his attention, that made him want to keep her under his eye.

_The game is on, and this case promises to be interesting._

\---

Six and a half weeks.

Sherlock had been watching her for six and a half weeks. He began to take less and less cases, but it didn’t bother him, none of them were interesting enough. John wasn’t surprised about his lack of taking cases, that was fairly normal, it was the fact he didn’t declare he was bored that surprised him. Usually going this long without a case bugged Sherlock and made him tick. He hadn’t complained in weeks. John appreciated it, but at the same time, it was strange.

Sherlock sometimes took to following her around. He found he was rather good at hiding in plain sight in order to watch someone. He had taken photos of her sometimes, too. At the store, getting gas for her car, walking the streets with a notebook in hand. Action shots she had been too busy to notice he was taking. He blended in well. He had forty-six photos in total. He only kept the ones that were good quality.

One Thursday, early in the morning, he was at his window, playing his violin and clearing his thoughts when he looked down and saw her. _____. She was standing at his door, looking down at her notepad as if to verify she had come to the right place. A smile crept onto his face and John walked into the room. “What are you smiling about?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A client,” Sherlock told him. “We’re about to have a new client.”

Before John could ask more, the door buzzed, and John’s head turned in the direction. “Should I go get that?” He asked, looking back at Sherlock.

“Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes and walked downstairs, opening the door and seeing the face of someone he _thought_ he recognized, but he couldn’t be sure. Her eyes shone, and John thought right away that she was definitely a looker. She was stunning. She spoke before he did. “Is this 221B Baker Street? Home of Sherlock Holmes?”

John snapped out of a trance and nodded. “It is. How can I help you?”

“Well, I met Sherlock a few weeks ago, and I think I could use his help on something.” There was a moment of silence before she continued, “Is he here right now? I could come back at a better time.”

“No, no, he’s here. Sorry, who did you say you were?”

“_____ _____. Sherlock and I met a while ago when he used my press pass to get into a crime scene.”

“Follow me, he’s right upstairs,” John gestured, and they went up the old stairs. Sherlock was already sitting down in his notorious chairs, ready to hear her case. John gestured to where she would sit and sat where he always did, grabbing a notebook and ready to take notes.

“Hello again Sherlock,” she greeted him with a smile. She seemed genuinely happy to see him. It didn’t take more than a look for Sherlock to know that she had no idea she was being watched by him.

“Hello, _____. What bring you here?” Sherlock got right to the point. He’s been watching her for a while, and as far as he knows, she had no _obvious_ probable cause to be in here. So what was it?

She took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I need your help. I think one of my co-workers is stalking me, but I can’t be sure. Last night, I received this note.”

_____ pulled out a manila folder and handed it to Sherlock. John walked over to Sherlock and watched as he opened the folder. He pulled out a large photograph of _____ in what appeared to be her home, sitting in her bed reading a book with a mug on her side. Sherlock could see the steam from the mug. Sherlock’s mind was already racing. _Good quality photo, probably a photographer of some sort. Must be someone she knows who knows her well enough to be over when she’s not home and plant a camera in her bedroom. Probably remote controlled, judging by how well-timed the photo is. Intentional shot, not something you’d get from a video recording._ The last things he thought about? _Even I haven’t gotten into her house yet. I must save this photo to my collection._

Looking at Sherlock, it was as if _____ could see the gears turning in his head. He hadn’t even flipped the photo over yet, he was still studying the picture itself. “There’s a note on the back, too,” _____ told him. Sherlock flipped it over, and there was writing on the back in a black pen.

_“So lonely… I could easily warm up that bed for you.”_

A burst of anger went through him. He didn’t think he would be _____’s only admirer, but he did think that he was the only one watching her. Well, he was watching her, this person was stalking her. Sherlock didn’t refer to himself as a stalker, he thought of himself as more of a type of voyeur. He watched her because he admired her, wanted to get to know more about her. He thought that he may love her or could love her in the future. He was watching her to see if he was right. Whoever this was stalked her, they were watching her with the intent of harming her, or taking something from her forcefully.

Sherlock would be gentle.

“Why would you think this is a co-worker?” John asked _____. It seemed obvious that someone was stalking her, but why would she think it was a co-worker?

“The note was left on my desk,” she answered John, and he scribbled it down before she turned back to Sherlock. “A few people from the network and I are going on an overnight trip to Wales to cover a ceremony there. Not my usual cup of tea, but I volunteered to go because I feel like whoever this is will follow me there. We leave tomorrow. Will you come with me and help me find out who sent this?”

John expected Sherlock to turn it down. It sounded like a case he would call boring, or something he would make John do because he wasn’t in the mood. He was shocked to hear Sherlock say those four words.

“I’ll take the case,” Sherlock said, putting the picture back in the folder and putting it to the side. “When exactly do you leave for this trip?”

_____’s face lit up as soon as he said he’d take it. “Perfect! We leave tomorrow in the afternoon, be at the Broadcasting Station at 11:45 with your bag packed. It’s just one night, so don’t feel the need to pack heavily.” In a rare moment of affection, _____ stood up and hugged Sherlock. “Thank you for this, I was really freaked out and didn’t think I could solve this on my own. With Sherlock Holmes on the case, they don’t stand a chance.”

“Your emotions would make you see the facts less clear,” Sherlock told her. He slowly put his arms around her, and John fought the urge to take a picture. However, his jaw was dropped. Sherlock _never_ displayed signs of affection like this. There had been his fake girlfriend, but even then, John could tell something was fake. This looked like real, _raw_ emotions from Sherlock Holmes.

_____ let go of the hug. Sherlock wished she hadn’t. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned to John. She didn’t know that he usually went on cases with Sherlock, in fact, she had no idea who he was. “It was nice to meet you, as well.” She nodded and left the room. Neither John nor Sherlock spoke until she walked out the door and they heard it close.

John was the first one to break the silence. “Why did you take her case? I’ve seen you pass over cases like that a million times, why take hers?”

Sherlock expected this question from John and already had an answer ready that he was sure would satisfy John. “I owe her a favor. She let me onto a crime scene with her press passes. I don’t like owing favors, John.”

John raises a suspicious eyebrow. “That hug? Sherlock, I’ve never seen you display any kind of affection in your life. I’m surprised you didn’t push her away.”

“And start off on a bad foot with a client?” Sherlock asked, standing up and heading to his violin. “It’s just one night, and besides, it’ll give me something to do.”

“Just you?”

“I see no reason for you to come along, John. Like you said, it’s a boring case. You stay here and do whatever it is you do when I’m not around,” Sherlock cut off the conversation and started playing his violin. Greensleeves filled the room. John just stared at him before turning away. Something wouldn’t leave his mind. Sherlock said he was just repaying a favor, but something about that seemed missing. He just couldn’t put his fingers on it.

Could it be that Sherlock Holmes, the ice-king sociopath, actually felt something for someone?

\---

When the next day finally arrived, Sherlock was exactly on time to meet _____. Not a second earlier or later. She smiled when she saw him and waved him over. “Sherlock! Over here!” He walked towards her and she turned to the rest of the crew. There was a total of ten people going on this trip. “Guys, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes, the one I was talking about. I told him that he’d make a fantastic journalist, so I’m taking him on this trip to give him a little first-hand knowledge on a profession he told me was _dead._ ”

Sherlock looked over everyone, analyzing them. There was _____, the cameraman, the photographer, the producer, the assisting anchor, two sound technicians, the light technician, the bus driver and Sherlock. He stood there, looking over all of them. He realized it was silent, as if they were expecting him to say something. “Nice to meet you all, I hope to get to know you all very well soon.” He gave a small smile.

“Let’s load on and get going,” the producer said, looking at his watch. “We should be able to get there, settle in and have time to wander around the city. _____ and Jason, your job is to get interviews for our online release. Sherlock, you’re with _____ since you’ll be shadowing her.”

Sherlock looked over at Jason and analyzed him. He was the photographer. _He would have the right camera, but…_ Sherlock looked him over again. He had signs of camera damage. He obviously was good at what he did, but his camera wasn’t the same quality that would meet the photo taken, and he was less careful with his camera. He cared about it, he obviously had it for a long time. Wasn’t something he’d plant in someone’s apartment. He didn’t look like he could afford a camera the quality that took the picture of _____.

Sherlock turned to the rest of the crew. In his head, he eliminated anyone who wouldn’t earn enough to afford a fancy, expensive camera. Next, he eliminated anyone who would lack the style that would be required to hide such a camera in _____’s room. _____ turned to Sherlock as they loaded onto the bus and whispered, “Any ideas?”

“A few,” Sherlock told her. “I need to ask, is there anyone here who would know where you lived?”

_____ thought for a moment. “Len, he’s the producer. He has access to my employee file, that has my address.”

Sherlock looked at Len. He had the money, the style, and the ability to enter _____’s apartment. There was one detail that eliminated him for Sherlock, he had a picture of his family as his lock screen. He had a loving husband and a child, the photo was obviously recent, so he cared about them greatly. The photo was in the right quality, but that would show that he hired someone to take the picture. _Gay family man with cash in the band, wouldn’t be interested in flirting with a lower-level female journalist._ “Who else?”

“Beau, he’s the light technician. He drove me home once after a late night finishing a story. He was finishing up light cues for the next days broadcast.” _____ pointed at him.

Sherlock looked at him. He was clumsy, no class, Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at how unassuming he was. He couldn’t afford a nicer suit than the one he had on, never mind a fancy, high quality camera. “Who else?”

“Taz, he’s the cameraman. We barely work together, except on trips like these. About a year ago, he helped me with my bags after a trip to Liverpool for a few nights.”

Sherlock looked at Taz. They made eye-contact, as if he was already looking their way. Sherlock analyzed him. _No ring, nice suit, access to quality cameras, close to the producer. Easily could’ve taken the photo._ Sherlock knew he had the right man when he made eye-contact with the Taz. He was looking at Sherlock like he was competition. Those were the eyes of a man who had something for the woman sitting next to him. _____ snapped Sherlock back into reality with, “Who do you have in mind?”

Sherlock looked at her. This case was so easy, but he had a plan in mind. He didn’t want to tell her right away that he already knew. “A few people. I’ll have to stick around for a little longer to figure that out.”

Something about that seemed strange to _____. She had seen what he could do. He had seen his website. He was amazing at deducing things about people, surely, he already knew who it was, or at least had ideas he could share with her. “Are you holding back on me?” _____ asked, her hands on her hips.

“I need to be sure.”

He already was, but another new feeling was going through him: loathing with a hint of jealousy, and one last feeling too. One he knew wasn’t good, but he wasn’t fighting it.

A feeling of possession over _____. No one was allowed to watch her like he was. No one was allowed to feel for her like he did, because no one could. Taz had to go.

\---

Wales was Sherlock’s least favorite part of Europe. Welsh people always found a way to find fault in something. While he shadowed Jason and _____, he thought it would be fun to deduce the locals that they were interviewing to see if he could sway their opinions. He started asking questions about their family or jobs without them ever mentioning it, and they weren’t impressed, they just were short-tempered. The ones who were curious about his deductions were unimpressed with the explanations. After a few hours, around 7 o’clock, they turned in for the day. _____ was getting sick of talking to locals, and Sherlock’s complaints were beginning to get repetitive.

“Her mind just couldn’t handle the fact that French Bulldogs aren’t a good breed,” Sherlock grumbled as they walked back to the hotel.

“Sherlock, you can’t just go around telling people that their beloved pets are horrible. No one is going to like it when you tell them that. Although, I have to admit, you catching the dog breed just by the hair and where it was is brilliant.”

“They can’t breathe by design. We ruined them,” Sherlock told her, but her compliment made him smile a little. He didn’t acknowledge it as they got inside and they divided rooms for the night. Sherlock, Jason and _____ were on the third floor, the techs on the second floor, and everyone else on the fifth. Sherlock and Jason were sharing rooms, _____ got her own. Sherlock had a feeling that something bad was going to happen tonight judging by the way Taz was looking at _____ and how intently he had listened to what room she would be staying in.

They took their things and headed to their rooms. Sherlock already could tell that Jason was the quiet type, as soon as they got to their room, all Jason wanted to do was look over the photos he took that day on his computer and start editing. “Might as well do it here,” he said. “Leaves less work for me to do when we get back.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sherlock told him, disappearing into the bathroom. He began to develop a plan. He was going to get ready for bed and tell Jason he was going to go for a late night walk, then stake-out _____’s room. He knew that Taz was going to do something. After his shower, Sherlock carefully removed the brand-new razors from his shaving razon. Sharp enough to slice through skin.

Sherlock took his time getting ready and left the room. Jason didn’t even seem to notice that he slipped away, so Sherlock didn’t bother to speak to him. He took a seat behind the ice machine in the hallway. The hallways were barely lit, darkness still covering some spots. Sherlock had a perfect view to the door of _____’s room. He waited patiently for Taz to strike.

Sherlock had a lot of time to think. He thought rationally about what he was doing. In his mind, there was nothing irrational. _____ was special to him, and he had taken a lot of time to study to her. He had concluded that she was someone he loved. There was no other way to describe the obsession he felt around her, the anger he felt towards those who wanted to harm her. There was no way he would do this kind of thing for someone who he didn’t love. Sherlock knew what love looked like. He wasn’t blind. John loved Mary, while she was alive. Molly loved Sherlock, though he still didn’t know why. He could recognize the signs of infatuation, and he had all of them. He was lovesick. If he didn’t have _____ around, he felt a need to see her. He needed to be around her to have a clear mind. He was sure about what he was going to do to stop Taz from whatever he was going to do. Sherlock didn’t know what it was yet, but he knew it wasn’t good.

The time was midnight. Sherlock saw someone come down the hall and to _____’s door. _Taz._ Sherlock moved quietly, his razor in hand. Taz looked around the hall, deciding it was deserted before using a slide key to open the door. He had a master key, the same one the producer had to everyone’s room. There were three master keys. Sherlock had pick-pocketed one from the producer. It was too easy.

Sherlock went to the door after Taz, opening the door just enough and quietly to slip in. He hid in the hotel closet, and Taz never noticed that the door closed behind him twice. He was too busy staring at _____. Sherlock watched from the closet. Taz spoke. “_____, are you awake?”

There was a rustling in the bed and _____ turned around, turning on the lamp. A soft orange light filled half the room, enough for her to see Taz. “What are you doing in here, Taz?” she asked. Her voice sounded tired.

“You just had to bring that man, didn’t you?” His voice was suddenly harsh. “You’re such a flirt, you know that? He doesn’t care about you. I’ve read about the ‘famous’ Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t care about anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice sounded confused. The panicked. “You… know his detective work?”

“You didn’t like my note, _____? I could treat you so well.”

“Taz, please, step away from me.” Her voice sounded worried. Scared. Sherlock gripped the razor in his hand.

“Do you want to know what I meant by warming the bed?” Taz asked. Sherlock heard the creaking of a bed.

“Taz, get off of me!” _____ began to scream. “Get off! Help!” Her yells became more desperate. Sherlock took a peek out of the closet. Taz was over her, her hands were pinned above her and she was kicking with her legs, but Taz soon put a knee over them. He wasn’t doing anything yet, just pinning her, but Sherlock knew where this was going. He took a deep breath. He needed just a little more probable cause.

“Stop screaming, _____. You’ll realize that this isn’t bad at all. Just stay still, alight? Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

He switched to using just one hand to pin her arms, and he went for her button-down pajama blouse. “Stop it, Taz! Please, don’t do this.”

“Would you shut up?” He asked, and as soon as the blouse was open, Sherlock made his move. He snuck out of the closet silently, it took only two large, quick steps to reach the bed. He reached around Taz’s neck, took his razor, applied pressure and slit his throat.

_____ watched Taz’s eyes go wide. Blood gushed from the wound and began to cover her. She shoved him off and screamed. Taz fell to the floor after stumbling. He was losing blood faster than he could realize what happened. _____ and Sherlock stood over him, watching. The last thing he saw was a smile spread across Sherlock’s face.

_____ turned to Sherlock. She looked mortified, her hand over her mouth. She began to gag, and blood was over her open blouse and her pants, some splatters on her face. So many questions, so little time. “Oh my-” she began to panic. “Sherlock, I think you just killed him!”

“He was going to harm you in ways you don’t want to think of,” Sherlock told her calmly. “I saved you.”

“There could’ve been other ways. How long… how long were you in here for?”

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t tell her the truth. “I was passing in the hallway when I heard you scream. I tricked the lock. Hotels rooms aren’t hard to get into.”

She looked at Taz on the floor. She needed to call the police, but a question popped into her head. One she hoped wasn’t the answer she dreaded. “Did you know it was him?” she looked at Sherlock. “Tell me the truth, or I swear to god Sherlock Holmes, I will never speak to you again.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

_____ ran a hand though her hair. She felt like she was about to be sick. “For how long? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Since about 12:30. I needed to wait.”

“Wait for what? Me to be attacked?”

“An opportunity to get rid of him,” Sherlock said. “Don’t you see? Stalkers with power don’t go to jail. I did you a favor. He wouldn’t have ever left you alone, I got rid of him so he can’t bother you anymore.”

“You are mad,” _____ whispered. “I’m going to call the police.”

As she reached for the phone, Sherlock grabbed her hand. “_____, I love you.”

She blinked at him. “What? You barely know me.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I know where you eat every day for lunch when you’re at work, and where you like to eat when you have days off. I know that you like to jog in the mornings, and I know what movie you’ve been watching on repeat for the last week. I know where you shop, where you work, what outfits you like to wear. _____... I’ve been watching you. I thought before that I loved you, and I know for sure now. I love you.”

“What do you mean you’ve been watching me?”

“I have forty-seven photos of you. I’ve seen your internet history, I know who you call on your phone because I tapped it. I needed to analyze you. I needed to know more about you. I needed to study you. You’re special, _____.”

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Seven weeks today.”

A tear fell out of _____’s eyes. “I had two stalkers?”

“I wasn’t stalking you. I would never hurt you, _____. I love you. I was watching you to make sure that no one got in the way of that. You were my new case.”

_____ shook her head. This couldn’t be real. “I’m calling the police.”

Sherlock let go of her hand. Sherlock knew everything he did couldn’t be proved. This death was excusable. After all, he was just protecting his new client. Sherlock looked into _____’s eyes. She was scared now. She would understand soon, though. He knew she would. She had to.

They were soulmates. He loved her. Everything he did was for her own good, and no one could tell him otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> I do requests for this series, I'm flexible when it comes to fandoms, message me for more information! My only limit is my writing is strictly limited to fictional characters.


End file.
